


Essayons

by meanoldauthor



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Canon, Backstory, Complete, F/F, Pre-Game(s), Sapphic September
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 11:46:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8012449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meanoldauthor/pseuds/meanoldauthor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War never changes--and sometimes has more than one front, following you home as you try to rebuild. And sometimes, you're lucky enough to have someone you love at your side in the apocalypse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The lights flickered, faded. Morten kicked the space heater, yanking her winter cap down over her ears. “Fuck Alaska. Fuck the Chinese. Fuck power lines, cables, scorched earth…”

“Did the splice come undone?” Corporal Palomo said, dropping a match into a wastebasket.

She looked out the window at the power line, scowling. “Oh, the splice is fine. It’s fine, by god, if I can’t splice a power cable from fifty feet up hanging out the side of a Vertibird, just cram me in a snow bank and leave me here.” Palomo raised an eyebrow, taking her gloves off to warm her hands over the burning paper. “Don’t look at me like that. The fault must be further down the system.”

“Specialist Morten, if the power’s not up in an hour, that snow bank is calling your name.”

“Good luck, gunny, unless you want me to search miles of power lines for the cut,” she said, looking up at the door. The gunnery sergeant brushed rime off his shoulders, bloodstains on his armor. “They might have even sabotaged the power station.”

“Well, damn.” He pushed up his goggles, eyes beneath dark with fatigue. “Want an alternative?”

She glanced at Palomo. “Last time we volunteered, we wound up here.”

“Our only option is to take the next line of Chinese defenses before they can cut and run. Leave us in the same position,” he said. “That means getting the boys in the ‘45s back on their feet.”

Palomo was still watching Morten. “You…sure about that, Sergeant Fuller? We both have motors badges, but not…”

“Good enough. You go with her, Morten.”

“Hey, guess what.” She pointed to her shoulder. “That says ‘sapper,’ gunny, not armor tech. I can dig you a bunker in permafrost, I can operate a minesweeper, but hell if I can rewire one of those tin cans. Do you know how many hours of training they put you through before you can even touch one? The stack of non-disclosure alone is—”

“Morten, do you want to sleep in a warm bunk tonight or go hiking after your broken power line?” Fuller rested his hands on the rifle slung on his chest; not a warning, but tense. “The Chinese know we’re here, and we lost technicians in the last assault. If you can hold a wrench, we need that armor in top shape for our unit to survive the next push.”

Palomo stood, fighting a salute. “Right away, sergeant. Morten, come on.”

“But I—”

“Morten, that’s an order. Our surviving mechanic will tell you what they need.”

She pressed her lips up tight behind her scarf, blowing gouts of steam through flared nostrils. “Right away, Gunny Fuller, you got it, here I go, don’t blame me when Sergeant Doyle can’t reach back to scratch his ass…”

Fuller gave her a look under his goggles before leaving. Palomo shook her head. “Cheer up, Morten. What’s your guy’s motto? The Engineer Corps?”

“ _Essayons_ ” she said, mouth still twisted. “’Let us try.’”

She shrugged, pulling her scarf down to show a crooked grin. “Then let’s try, huh?”

—

It was a slow grind towards Anchorage, in the cold and the dark. Palomo took to the power armor with ferocious dedication, Morten beside her with only spite to keep her from being outfoxed by a machine. The rest of their platoon was somewhere at their wings, but stretched thin, other mechanics too far to offer help. Hernandez, their remaining tech, was hoarse from shouting at his trainees, nearly tearing his hair out when the motors in one suit burned away past uselessness. He ordered it scavenged—Keep the parts away from the Chinese, repair the others with them.

They had retaken a minuscule town, multiple squads packed in an old home for warmth. Palomo was beside her in her bedroll, huddled up against the cold. “Where’d I go wrong?” she muttered. “Four years of mechanical engineering, get drafted by these yahoos. _Essayons._ Essay my ass, I got an essay why this is all bunk…”

She arched away at a poke in her back. “You gonna gripe all night or let us sleep?”

“Gripe,” she said, but pulled her bedroll up over her head. Behind her, Palomo turned over, back against hers.

—

It started feeling good, walking behind the suits they kept running, watching the armor units tear down tanks and fortifications. Supply lines grew behind them. Reinforcements were on their way. Anchorage was mere miles from American hands.

So the Chinese pushed back in the night.

Whoever was on watch never had time to send up an alarm. Morten woke to screams and panicked gunfire, scrabbling for her service rifle. A shadow was moving through the room, a shimmer in the air that flickered when she opened fire, sparked—and snapped back into a human shape with a bulging orange face. It flinched away and broke for the door, something clattering to the ground behind it. Morten struggled to stand, bound up in her bedroll, other soldiers rising at the noise. Palomo shouted and dragged her down, rolling over her. She didn’t hear if either of them screamed, deafened by the grenade blast, but Palomo’s fingers dug into her shoulder, could feel blood soaking through her gear.

Morten reached up to shake her, so much dead weight. Rolling her off, she pushed to her feet, clicking on the flashlight clipped to her chest. A private was struggling to rise, partly shielded in the kitchen. The rest lay in the blast zone, bedrolls torn to bloody ribbons, the ones near the door with their throats cut. She stumbled over them and pulled the survivor to his feet, checking him over, yelling through the ringing in her ears to sit by Palomo while she looked for a medkit.

Her hearing came back as she dragged one up, shaking bodies as she searched the room. The spotlights outside flickered, died. There were shouts, gunfire outside, the other squads. She paused with the medkit in one hand, the other on her service rifle.

The private moaned. Morten bit her teeth and went to them.

“Private—” she glanced at his chest, “—Anderson. Your arms work?” He nodded, sitting up, a blanket pressed against his leg. “I got stimpaks here. You need help with them, say so. Thermal blanket in the kit.”

Palomo opened her eyes as Morten called her name, mumbled as she checked airway and breathing. “Hey, good to see you,” she said. Bracing Palomo’s arm against her side, she rolled her, keeping her spine stable. She whimpered, and Morten grimaced. “Come on, Palomo,” she said, cutting away the battledress under her armor. “Call this bad? You made a bigger fuss over skinning your knuckles on a wrench.”

Morten stared at the mess in front of her. She peeled away bits for fabric from the…it couldn’t be described as a wound. “How bad is it?” Palomo groaned.

Morten and Anderson shared a look. “A paper cut,” she said. She stuck the stimpak into the intact skin, under the armor. “You’ll be up kicking Chinese ass in no time.” She kept clearing away debris from the tissue. All it would take was a stray tug on her clothes to tear the whole thing open again. “Anderson, you holding up?”

“Yes, specialist,” he said, but was pale and shaking. The sounds of battle outside were gone, replaced with keening wind, the flash of guns and grenades swallowed up in the dark. The building was getting colder by the second

“You lay down, private, or get your head between your knees. I’ll start an IV in you in a moment, take care of that shock.” The bleeding was starting to slow as she worked her way down, using the stable tissue to administer more stim. “You too, Palomo, you big baby. You’ll be fine.” Good enough, the big veins closed off. “Here. Do the baked potato thing a while, Anderson needs a hand,” she said, shaking out a thermal blanket and tucking it around her. “I’ll be right back for you, ok?”

Palomo’s lips moved, voice too faint to hear. She patted her head as she went to the private, laying back with the other blanket. “We’re dead,” he said, face ashen.

“Bite me.” Morten ripped a hole in the elbow of his clothes rather than fight to roll them up. “We’re getting out of here alive, I won’t die a popsicle.” It took two tries for the needle to show blood flow, and she tucked the saline bag under his armpit.

White was showing all the way around his eyes. “How?”

“Let me worry about that, private.” She tore open a glove heater pack, stuffing it in against the bag.

Palomo tried to open her eyes as Morten did the same for her. “Need to get out.”

“I know.” There was no good place to set the bag, and she worked it into the collar of her balaclava.

“Vehicles’ll be scuttled…captured.”

“I know. Hang on, Palomo.” Heat pack there, too. “I’ll go check it out. I’ll come back for you, ok?”

A nod, her eyes shut. Morten settled her rifle and made for the door.

—

The APCs were sabotaged. More than anything, it looked like mines had been wedged under the armor, blowing electricals and fuel lines. Their Vertibird was a smoldering mess. The few trucks they had were softer targets still, a few still burning and melting puddles in the snow. She gave them a wide berth.

Morten went through the occupied buildings, grim and cold, not bothering to count, knowing it was futile to check pulses. The Chinese assault had been fast, brutal. If no one had survived long enough to be up and moving now, they hadn’t survived at all. The shack with the radio gear was reduced to splinters. She gripped her gun tighter, heartbeat in her ears, and headed for the shed they’d been using for the armor. They had four sets, after the one had burned out. That’s all she needed, just one…

One set was laying outside, metal sheared open, the blast radius of a mine for meters around. Shining her light into the shed, she counted two more—One disassembled for repairs, one scuttled, a flare still burning in the helmet to keep the tech out of enemy hands.

Her heart sped up. They would have had one patrolling. She shone her light, trying to find a trail of armored feet through the dark. It was just a shallow groove in the blowing snow, but she raced after it, clenching her teeth at the blood staining the white. The wind and dark were vicious, leaving her toes numb as she tried to spot the fading tracks. She hissed pain when she tripped on a snow bank, falling over something hard and cold, and roughly human shaped.

It was the last set of power armor, and was still…occupied. It had fallen facedown, and Morten gave the handle on the back a hard crank. The plating creaked open, sluggish in the cold, and she shouldered into it to get the access open wide enough. The pilot was already stiff, bullet wounds in his back, but no sign of them on the armor.

“God bless, you dumbshit,” she said, getting her hands under his armpits. “Two seconds to treat that and we wouldn’t be in this mess.” Morten unhooked his feet, dragging him away. “Hero-ing just gets everyone killed.”

She had to kneel into the powersuit, lay down into the chest. The HUD was still flickering, and she chinned the control to seal it, cutting off the wind. Right. She’d seen them used, worked on them. Knew, in theory, how to operate it. _Essayons_ , huh. Laying here wasn’t getting the three of them out.

First, stand. Her shoulder popped as she got an arm under her, and took a breath. The armor did the work, she had to stay loose. Breathing out the tension, Morten worked up to her hands and knees, then one knee, straightened up. She scooped up the minigun beside her, fighting to balance as she tromped back to the others.

—

Anderson was still shaking when she got there, jumping as she broke the door down rather than attempt the knob with meathook gauntlets. He didn’t settle until she stepped out of it and checked them both over. Anderson had stopped bleeding, and Morten slapped him on the shoulder, assured him it’d all be right as rain. Palomo was unconscious, but still warm, pulse beating in her neck. She woke enough to clutch the thermal sheet around her as Morten bundled them onto a length of steel plate, a pile of bloody bedrolls lashed around them.

“You ever go sledding as a kid, Anderson?” Morten asked. He mumbled something in the positive. “Pretend you’re going sledding. Nice mug of cocoa at the end of it all.” Her fingers were numb as she fed a cable into the lift rings on the armor’s shoulder. “Palomo? You with me?” She looked over. “Palomo?”

She was watching her, face mostly covered in blankets. “Palomo, you got a first name?” She finally managed a knot in the cable. “Be a shame, your parents giving a pretty girl like you a name like Corporal.”

“N-n-nora.”

“Well, Nora, call me Hester. You get one of those heat packs open,” she said, opening the armor. “Then hang on tight, ok? You saved my life tonight, I wanna buy you a drink sometime.”

She nodded, snuggled in tighter. Morten stepped in, and set a marker for south.

—

The next camp down the road was in ruin. Morten kept the minigun up, ready, but the Chinese had already torn through, no survivors. She kept walking, throwing debris ahead to trigger any mines. She remembered the set outside the armor shop, shredded like a tin can.

Her teeth had stopped chattering. Her HUD had been blinking a heat warning for the last hour, the temp controls damaged in the fighting. Her feet had gone too numb to hurt anymore, the occasional flushes of heat from the core enough to keep her from freezing to death. No time to stop and fix it—hell, she wasn’t even sure what do without someone holding her hand. Morten just walked faster, feet dragging, calling to the others to make sure they were still breathing.

There was activity, the next camp down. Hester brought the minigun up, stopping dead when a light snapped on her. Something was called out, a watchword. She had time to think _was that Chinese?_ before the shooting started. Hester kept herself between it and the sled, taking short, tight bursts at the muzzle flashes in the dark. She watched the ground, their stealth suits only showing a shimmer in the air, but unable to hide their tracks in the snow.

Her ammo counter ticked low, and the camp fell quiet. Hester dragged the sled along, tense, slinging a Chinese rifle on the gatling’s place. There was a radio tower ahead.

—

She trudged through the night. The horizon lightened, faded again, the Alaska sun never breaking the skyline. The radio ops she had reached was quiet about locations, aware of listeners. South. _You’ll hit the line eventually._ She’d stopped to warm the three of them up in the Chinese bunks, checking wounds, digging into enemy rations. Anderson was withdrawn, silent, but Palomo—Nora—was still fighting to stay conscious. Hester’s fingertips burned like she’d scalded them, and she kept pumping her hands to keep up circulation.

South. She panted exhaustion, eyes barely able to focus. Buildings loomed after hours of walking, no longer able to lift her feet out of the snow. She raised her head as another spotlight swung her way, but the challenge that followed was in English. “What the hell, you guys,” she called, using the suit’s amplifiers. “I have injured!”

The American troops swarmed them, catching her as she fell backwards out of the armor. Hester let them carry her, gritting her teeth at the fever heat of the infirmary building. Her eyes closed as soon as they lay her down, barely waking as a medic examined her. Hester focused long enough to follow his finger, grip his hands weakly. She sighed when he stepped out of sight, drifting off.

“Specialist?”

“Wh?” She cracked an eye.

The medic was standing at the foot of her bed, gripping her feet through the blanket. “Can you feel me touching you?”

“’Course I…” She tried to move them. Her legs twitched, but her feet were immobile. “Corp’rl Palomo?”

“She and Anderson are out of the worst danger. We’re medevacing you three to Juneau.” He gave her feet one last squeeze, frowning. “You did good work, Specialist. They’ll live.”

“Mm. N’me?”

A breath, hesitation. “You’ll live.”


	2. Chapter 2

They were bundled up and wheeled onto a plane to Juneau, to more poking and prodding at the hospital there. Some officer stood beside her bed, questioned her about the power armor, the Chinese and Gunny Fuller’s decisions. Hester mumbled something vague, too high on painkillers to remember. They had nodded, thanked her for her service, told her they’d have administration in touch soon.

She asked the nurses about the others, was told to rest up and get better and she’d get to see them soon. “I can hear her on the other side of the curtain,” she said, still muzzy. She flexed her fingers, examining the bandage-mittens the nurse had replaced “Can’t I say hi?”

“Private Anderson was well enough to return south for rehabilitation,” The nurse didn’t look up, standing at the foot of her bed. “Corporal Palomo is in for another surgery today. She won’t be aware enough to have visitors for at least another day after.” They had rigged up some sort of tent over her feet. Hester craned to see, but he had kept the blankets folded over the top of it. “The surgeon will be in to discuss your treatment later today. Use your call button if the pain starts again.”

—

She was quiet, at a loss after the consult, stayed so for the entire day after the surgery. She looked up at the ceiling rather than the end of the bed, kept her hands under the sheets. She felt her ears prick up at Nora’s voice, muffled but lucid on the other side of the curtain. Hester waited for the nurse to leave, snagging the crutches propped up beside her. Careful of her fingertips, she hooked the partition on them, dragging them aside.

“Morten!” Nora lay on her front in her bed, a thick pad of bandage on her back. She smiled, face hollow and hair sickly. “Good to see you.”

“Hey, you didn’t die! What’d I tell you?” Hester said. “How’s the paper cut?”

“Hurts like hell and I can’t stand up.” She reached up to pull a bit of hair out of her face. “They keep adding metal plates, I think it’s some mad science bid to turn me into a cyborg,” she said, wry. “What about you? I didn’t think you were hurt?”

“Ah, hurt, well. Not _hurt_ hurt.” She waved a hand. “Honestly, I’d say you look like shit, Palomo,” Hester said, flipping the blanket away, “but I don’t have a leg to stand on.”

Her mouth was a perfect O of surprise and horror. Hester snorted at her, and she started to chuckle. “That’s not funny,” Nora said, and gasped as the laughter hurt.

Hester smiled back, laughed for the first time in what felt like weeks.

—

Another month until they were shipped south again, a month of paperwork and assessments and doctors and surgeons. Longer, in the vets’ center, sharing a drab room in a drab building staffed with drab people. Nora gave Hester skeptical looks as she tried to balance on the back wheels of her chair, Hester shredded paper napkins into pom-poms as Nora figured out how to settle her back brace and walker. They wheeled downstairs together talking, and eventually limped down on crutches and walkers to physio, wondering what hell the therapists had in store.

“You know I played basketball in college?” Hester said. The temporary prosthesis wobbled, and she missed her bounce. One of the therapists rolled the ball back, and she grabbed a rail as she scooped it up.

“You’re tall enough.” Nora stuck her tongue out in concentration, taking a steady one bounce per step. “You any good?”

“Varsity. We took conference one year,” she said. She gave the ball a twirl, dropping it sharply when the weight of it hit the scarred knuckle of her finger. Hester frowned at it, gave the rest of them a wiggle. “At least the middle one looks really long, now.”

Nora snorted. “Don’t go mad with power.”

“But it feels so natural.” The ball was rolled back, and she focused on keeping her back straight, trying not to tip. “You do any sports?”

“Not really. Speech and debate. Um.” She paused, needing a dozen small steps to turn in a circle. “Chess club.”

“ _No_ ,” Hester said, an evil glint her her eye. Nora threw her ball at her.

She caught Hester staring at her legs when the custom prostheses came in. She ran her fingers where they ended under the knee, gave way to sockets and metal poles and molded doll’s feet. Nora whispered a favor to the nurses, did hurried work while her roommate showered. Hester had stared at the glittery red toenails, laughed for a full minute before wheeling over to give her a hug.

The brace on Nora’s back dug in, was awkward to pull closed. The staff tried to help, but were too busy, too indifferent to take the time to remold, refit, try different arrangements of straps and fasteners. Hester snuck a pair of scissors out of the rec room, spent a night shaving it down just so, cutting up an old coat for ties and buckles and padding. The staff had been aghast, and Hester sat back in her chair as Nora tore into them, watched them wither at words like _media exposure_ and _malpractice_. “It’s not rocket science! If a mechanic can do better in one night with a pair of safety scissors than weeks with you _trained professionals_ , what is the point of us being here?” She stayed standing as they left, holding the foot of her bed, sighed when they were gone. “That’s selling you short. But you shouldn’t need a degree in engineering to…”

“No, s’good,” Hester said, chin in her hands, grinning so hard it was starting to hurt. “They had it coming.”

They leaned on each other after sessions, sat in the same bed and watched television as they bad mouthed the therapists who just wanted _one more step, you can do it!_ as they clung for life on the stair rails. Talked about Alaska, on the news, in their heads. Nora pored over pamphlets on civilian reintegration, job opportunities and college courses. Hester folded hers into airplanes, leaning out the door and trying to hit the nurses’ station down the hall. “Manual dexterity tests,” she said, one of the nurses bringing back an armful with a scowl. “I’ve only got six and a half fingers, you should be glad at the progress!”

Nora paused, pen to her lips and a booklet in one hand as she squinted at Hester’s hands. “You remember how to count, right?”

“Thumbs aren’t fingers,” she said, folding a fresh pamphlet in half.

The therapists set a discharge date. They strolled the center’s grounds, slowly, Nora with an arm through Hester’s, Hester with a cane in her other. They sat on a bench, facing a thicket of trees that hid the building from the road. “I saved this one,” Hester said, pulling a pamphlet out of her pocket. “They started throwing them away, and I wanted you to see it.”

 _Sanctuary Hills_ was written across the front, and it was filled with images of sleek, modern homes. “It’s a new development, they seem to be allergic to stairs. And since they’re sick of us here, I thought we ought to get something lined up, and, uh, it’d be easier to get a place together than…”

Nora smiled, and kissed her on a burning cheek.


	3. Chapter 3

It felt eerie, at first, just the two of them in the house. Hester kept the television on for noise, until Nora protested—all they showed anymore was reports on the war. She had thrown up her hands, it was _important_ , for crying out loud, and she’d be back up there if she could.

Had caught the look on Nora’s face. Hester bought a secondhand holotape player the next day, and a stack of Nora’s favorite bands, had it delivered when she went out for groceries. She looked at her over the newspaper when she stopped inside the door, gestured to the wood ramp over the front steps, the music in the air. “They used it to get the player in. I thought it looked helpful.”

Nora wheeled her little cart of groceries over, set her cane aside to hug Hester from behind.

Life began to settle. Nora started a correspondence course on law, turning the back room into an office. Hester took a job at the Red Rocket station down the road, to Nora’s approval. “You’re less trouble when your hands are busy.” Hester had grinned, and Nora flushed, hiding behind a textbook. She took a bicycle to work rather than bankrupt themselves on fuel, moving slow and wobbly, unable to feel her feet on the pedals. She stayed late one evening, putting a finger to her lips as the other mechanics watched, perched on a stool with the bike pedals and prostheses on the workbench.

She went home much faster than she left it, rolling along the sidewalk. “Nora! Nora, come look!” The neighbors two doors down were staring at her. She turned, coming back the other way. “Noraaaa…”

The end of a cane brushed the curtains aside. With a click, Hester stuck her legs out to the sides, pedal arms spinning bare. “Look Nora, no feet!” In the window, she gave her an incredulous look, shaking her head. Hester grinned and brought her feet down, trying to clip them back on. “What, don’t you like—shit—”

Nora had a bottle of iodine ready when she limped in. “It worked the whole way back, even if it did void my warranty,” she said, doffing her legs and rolling up her pants.

“I bet it did,” Nora said, passing her the bottle and gauze. “Just have to work on the follow-through.” She let her get cleaned up, holding her hand as she rested. “I had a thought. With you gone all day, I could use a hand around here. Our benefits would get us a discount on a Mr. Handy.”

Hester waffled for days—artificial intelligence was still new, so uncertain. But seeing Nora fighting to lift and carry, working around her braced back and the ruined nerves in her legs, decided her. She took a creeper from work to roll the box on, to and from the car, sacrificing a fraction of a fuel cell to make the trip to Concord.

Nora paged through the instructions, brace set aside for her wheelchair, as Hester kneeled on the ground assembling it. An afternoon of warm bickering finally saw it drifting gently over the carpet, requesting them to read off a serial number and begin orientation. Nora clasped her hands at her chest, thrilled. Hester pulled herself up on the arm of her chair, getting her balance before kissing her temple and going to start supper.

—

Every few weeks found them at the veteran’s hall for dinner, Nora sitting on the crossbar of Hester’s bike for the trip. Nora hobnobbed, making connections, taking down addresses and chatting. Hester wound up at a table in the corner, playing cards or sharing stories when she wasn’t being shown off. “What am I, some kind of trophy wife?” she asked, pedaling back home.

“You would be if we were married,” she said, stealing a kiss.

“We’ll make honest women of each other, someday.”

The news was full of nothing but the war. More troops were being stationed in Canada to hold supply lines, and the paper called for write-in suggestions for the name of the new commonwealth. Nora’s piles of papers grew, coursework and personal correspondence alike. New models of power armor were revealed, and Hester cut out the images for closer scrutiny. The Mr. Handy, Codsworth, bustled about their home, a shining whirlwind of order and cheer.

Hester kept making adjustments on the sly to her legs, until the station manager caught on and told her off. She came home fuming, threatening to quit, pacing until her legs ached. Nora heard her out, holding a stack of papers from her office. When Hester finally sat beside her, she took her hand, told her to be patient, she knew better than to make a decision angry. She went back the next day, grudgingly, to tension and people not speaking to her. She came home to a new workbench beside the house, a box of tools tied with a ribbon on top. “Took a page out of your book,” Nora said, grinning in the doorway.

She spent the next day at the bench, playing with it. When Nora was in the shower, she tucked something under her side of the mattress, chuckling to herself.

The first day, she made no comment, handing her a lunch and giving her a kiss before she left for work. The next day, Nora squinted at her over her coffee before shaking her head and going back to a letter. The third, Hester tottered down the hall, reaching up to brush the ceiling with her fingers. Codsworth fixed a monitor on her as she passed, folding laundry in the utility room. “Ma’am! You seem to be having a growth spurt.”

She tried to shush him, but Nora was already leaned around the corner. “I knew it.”

“Damn it, I made enough to add an inch a day for the next week—” but Nora was in her arms, laughing, and Hester hugged her tight. “I might keep the one-inch rods. I was always a little sore I was never made it to six feet even.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” Nora said, arms looped behind her, leaning back to look at her face. “I was thinking of going to meet someone this weekend. Nathan and I have been writing for a while, and he’s asked if we could get lunch.”

“Nathan…?”

“Private Anderson. Don’t you remember?”

“Right.” They leaned on each other as they went back to the kitchen, dishing up breakfast. “I don’t think I’ve even spoken to him since Alaska. How’s he been?”

“Healed up well enough they tried to field him again. Wound up discharged on psych.” Hester dropped her eyes, nodded as they sat. “He was going to be in town this week, something about meeting family. We’ve talked pretty regularly for the last few months, so…”

“You didn’t mention.” Hester took a bite of toast, chewing it far longer than necessary. Nora said nothing, tips of her ears red. “I mean, it’s not a problem. Just thought he might have asked about me. But no, come on—” Hester waved her down, taking Nora’s hands. “If you want to go meet him, go. It’s hard for you to get out much, I know, so go and have a good time. You don’t need to see my ugly mug every second of the day.”

She smiled, relieved, and kissed her fingers.

—

Hester spent the afternoon at the workbench, looking up at every sound of a car. Too early for her to be back yet, but she didn’t want to be run over in the driveway. She went in as the sky started to darken, moving gingerly, rehearsing lines under her breath between chuckles.

Home by ten, Nora had said, at the latest. Hester watched the news, Codsworth puttering over supper. The newscaster read stories about American soldiers invading homes, arresting men and women with Chinese sympathies. The stories the papers had printed about the camps had appeared one day and been gone the next, retractions printed, but the news no longer seemed to care for discretion. They broadcast stories of protesters being shot—but of course, they had instigated the food riots, and brought it on themselves. The news shouted of America’s strength and patriotism, of things between the lines that made her turn off the set and dig through Nora’s holotape collection.

She listened to music, staring off into space until after midnight. Codsworth tapped her on the shoulder, startling her awake with a strangled _blart_. “You’ll get a dreadful crick in your neck sleeping on the couch, ma’am.”

“What time is it?” she said, rubbing at her eyes.

“Gone four in the morning, ma’am. But not to worry, mum will be back as soon as she’s able, I’m sure.”

Hester sat awake another hour, considered digging through Nora’s papers for Anderson’s phone number, shook her head at herself. There was a pit in her stomach as she went to bed, staring at the ceiling as she tried to fall asleep.

She rolled over at the sound of a car, shot awake as Codsworth greeted someone at the door. Hester scrambled into her wheelchair, prosthetics abandoned in the rush. “Nora?”

The sun was coming up, framing her in the doorway. “Hester! I’m sorry, I just— things—”

She nearly knocked her over, reaching out to scoop her up. “You didn’t call! I was worried sick, are you okay? What happened?”

“I…Codsworth, could you get some coffee on?”

“Right away, mum.”

Hester helped her sit, get her brace off and prop her up with pillows. There was something tight in her face as she started to talk. Anderson—Nate—had been having a rough time of it, wanted to talk with someone who had _been there_. She’d had his contact information though her friends at the veteran’s hall, had reached out to him. Started sending letters, support. He’d sent it back.

“It wasn’t ever anything…serous, at least in the letters,” she said, breathing in steam from her coffee. “But we had a late lunch, wound up having a few drinks, and…”

Hester had her chin in her hand, covering her mouth, empty mug hanging from her fingers.

“We had so much to talk about, I went with him to his hotel. My decision. I’m sorry, I know it was the wrong one…”

She nodded, raised her mug when Codsworth offered the pot.

“Please say something.”

She took a sip, looked at her reflection in it. “Call me next time.”

“Next time?”

It was easier to look out the window than at her. “I’m a damn brick, Nora. When was the last time we ever _talked?_ Talked about the things that happened, and what it left in your head? You got something you needed from him, that I’ve been pretty stingy with.”

“I cheated on you.”

The word floated in the air. “Yeah. Thought that might be…”

“And you’re not…?”

“I don’t really know what I am, Nora. I imagine I’ll be pretty upset once that sinks in. But I’m not throwing you to the wolves for it.”

“I won’t see him again.”

“You can if you need to.”

“Hester, why are you being so…” She threw up a hand, unable to find a word.

She took it when it came back down. “Because I love you, and I trust you, even if you made a mistake. Because you need people you can talk to. I’m not gonna sit here and dictate what you can or can’t do with your life.” She squeezed it tight, let go. “You want the shower first, or should I?”

—

The next few days were quiet. Nora hardly said a word, Hester looked out windows or hid behind a newspaper, and even Codsworth was reserved, maybe programmed to pick up the mood. It wasn’t until three days later that Nora asked, over coffee, “What’s up with your feet?”

Sitting at a stool at the island, Hester bounced a leg on the ground, kept her newspaper up. “I put a little spring in my step.”

“Are they—”

“Leaf springs.”

She folded the corner of her paper down. Nora had a hand to her forehead. “Did you wait three whole days to make that p—”

Hester threw the paper down. “It was _torture_.”

Nora snorted, and gave in to a laugh.

They settled back into routine, time doing its work to heal. Hester came home to find Nora watching the news, patting the couch to join her. “Can’t ignore it any more.”

They stared, helpless, at images of tanks rolling through American neighborhoods. The Chinese front was all but won, but all it left was a long, ugly trail of unrest. People in the cities were facing food shortages. Brownouts rolled across whole states, rationing energy. The riots in Denver got a day on the news, barely, before media blackout struck and propaganda reels took their place.

Hester pedaled off to work, knowing there would be no cars to fix, not with gasoline costing a fortune, not with fuel cells nearly worth as much. She biked back one day, silent, put her chin atop Nora’s head as she told her the station was closing down.

She woke up to hear Nora retching in the bathroom, went to her to hold her hair back and wipe her face. Nora protested as she called the clinic in Concord, said she was fine, really, was just a little nauseous. Hester cajoled her into sitting on the crossbar of her bike, bundle of canes tied to her back, just to get checked for safety’s sake. The ride was bumpy and slow and left both of them in bad humor. Nora struck up a conversation with the woman beside her, leaving Hester to page through a badly outdated issue of _Dean’s Electronics._

The ride back was worse, a stunned silence with Hester puffing to make the hill up to Sanctuary, Nora starting sentences just to let them die. They leaned on each other as they sat on the couch, and Nora gestured for her to put her legs up on her lap. “Come on. Don’t tell me you’re not sore after that.”

“You’re the one who’s…” But she pressed her lips together, set her prostheses aside. “Do you have Nate’s phone number?”

“Yeah.” Nora rubbed at her legs, massaging out the tension. “I don’t know if…”

“You don’t have to do it today. If ever.” She lay back, staring at the ceiling. “What’ll it take to turn the office into a nursery?”

“I don’t know. It’s…” She crumpled, leaning froward. “This is actually happening…”

“Hey, hey, hang on. Hang on.” Hester swung her legs down to lean in, arms around her. “We have a while. We don’t have to make any decisions tonight.” She rested her head on her shoulder, stroked her hair. “I’ve got you.”


	4. Chapter 4

The world continued to spiral down. Canada was taken by force, media forgetting patriotism and propaganda for the sake of broadcasting fear and power. Nora’s calls and letters to Nate went unanswered. Her other mail grew sporadic, the mailman missing for a week before coming back with a sawed-off shotgun on his hip.

Hester tinkered with her legs, between helping Nora clear out the office. They invited some neighbors over to help move the desk, had them stay for supper. Hester had never bothered getting close to them, but seeing Nora smiling, laughing made her try to relax, talk. They were invited elsewhere, asked to come over next door. Hester speculated with them about the big construction project to the northwest, discussed the state of the Commonwealth, the difficulties of even going to Boston. They shared food, stories. Mrs. Rosa offered cuttings from her vegetable garden—”It’s so hard to get fresh things with the…difficulties”—and Hester spent days on her knees in the dirt trying to make them grow.

“You _are_ less trouble when your hands are busy,” Nora said, lounging in the hammock Hester had made.

“You’re just jealous,” she said, tying up a bean runner. “You killed a cactus once.”

“And you’ve never grown anything. _Essayons,_ though, hm?.” Hester looked up, the word almost from another life. “Nothing has ever stopped you from trying.”

Hester looked at their house, the tiny garden, Nora and her baby bump. “Guess not,” she said.

She nodded, sagely. “I learned not to under-Hester-mate you—” It turned into a shriek of laughter, Hester threatening her with the hose.

The newscasts were grim, but they both sat and watched, the futility turning Hester sour. Nora turned to anger, calling and writing letters to connections in her law course, fighting to do something, anything. Hester puttered, did little repairs for people in Sanctuary, distracting herself and trying to sock away money. Nora became the heart of the community, organizing, pooling resources, helping people share skills.

“The war would be over, if they had just made you a general,” Hester said, curling up behind her in bed, nose against the back of her neck.

She snorted, pulling her arm closer to her chest. “When the apocalypse comes, you know who to turn to.”

—

In January, just as Alaska was finally taken back, Shawn happened.

Hester had refused to go out in the cold, bribing a neighbor kid with a box of snack cakes to shovel for her. She gave him a thumbs-up through the glass, cozy inside. “Ma’am, I am equipped with the pinnacle of snow-clearing technology…”

“You scared the bejeesus out of Tom, Codsworth, and almost lit a tree on fire.”

“A calibration error! I _have_ corrected for it—”

“Hester?” Nora called from the bedroom. 

“I didn’t do anything wrong!” She shouted back. “He’s a kid, they’re springy.”

“Hester, I need you here _now_.”

She hurried back into the house. Nora was sitting in bed, a book open beside her. “These ones aren’t going awa—” she gasped, face drawing into a grimace, hands on her belly.

Hester reached out to comfort her, drew back as realization set in. “Is this it?”

All she could manage was a nod. Hester caught herself on the edge of the bed as she hurried over, giving her a kiss on the cheek as she grabbed the chair. “Ok. We’re fine. We got this.” Nora got her feet on the floor, Hester standing her up long enough to sit in the wheelchair. “It’s ok. Codsworth! Where’s the bag?”

“Here, ma’am! Chin up, mum, you’re made of tough stuff!”

Codsworth handed her a backpack as she passed. There was one last fuel cell in the car, hoarded for an emergency. “It’s gonna be ok. It’s gonna be ok. We have a plan, right? We rehearsed. Can you sit up, or do you want to lay in the back?”

“Back,” Nora panted, and Hester braced herself against the car, helping her transfer from the chair to the seat. She wiped out on the ice, the neighbor kid staring as she hauled herself up by the wing mirror and climbed into the driver’s seat.

The trip to the Concord clinic was mostly screaming. Hester fumbled for the pedals with her new feet, slewing on the ice, Nora sliding in the back and swearing at her contractions. They wound up half on the sidewalk outside the clinic, staff poking nervous heads out to see what the commotion was.

And, at 10:35 pm, January 12, 2077, Hester cut the cord on a wrinkly little bean of a human, watched Nora’s face as it was pressed into her arms.

—

The following months were a blur of lack of sleep and dirty diapers. Nora stayed mostly in her chair—the birth had been cesarean to accommodate her back, and Hester took on as much legwork as she could manage. Codsworth was a godsend, even as Hester grumped about their son being raised by a robot.

It became the new normal, tending Shawn, keeping up with the neighbors, watching the news between brownouts. Hester scraped up benefits, savings, did odd jobs in Concord. Nora laughed as Hester showed their son a set of shiny tools and explained the difference between socket and ratchet wrenches, yelled at her when Shawn tried to put them in his mouth. Hester watched as she rocked him, reading aloud.

There were a few things still right in the world.

Summer passed. Hester was almost glad of the numerous power cuts, silencing stories of power-armored soldiers turned on American citizens. The big cities were martial law, riot zones. Nora’s stacks of letters towered on the kitchen table, and one morning she sat with her head in her hands. Hester hugged her from behind, head on her shoulder as Nora whispered, “The only people we could make a case to are shooting civilians.”

She excused herself for a trip into Concord, trying to act casual. She came back with a little velvet box tucked into her pocket, a shiny new radio under her arm as cover. “What brings this on?” Nora asked, turning it over.

“This one’s on battery,” Hester said. “So we don’t have to wait for the power to come back on to listen.”

“We should have done this ages ago,” she said, flicking it on with a smile.

Nora helped to organize a Halloween block party, and Hester helped the neighbors sink a new root cellar, bartering a good bottle of champagne off of them. She listened to the weather reports avidly, finally picking a clear, warm day. She pulled the box out of her sock drawer, hiding it deep in a pocket before going to join Nora in the living room. “Hey, I was thinking we could—”

There was a knock on the door as she passed. Hester gave it a look, as though willing it to burst into flames. “Again?”

“Just answer it. Poor guy’s never going away otherwise,” Nora said, sipping her coffee.

“Poor guy?” she said, eyeing her cane by the door. “I don’t care what he’s selling, I’m not big on letting strangers in here these days.”

“He’s just doing his job. Unless you want me to…?” Nora put her hands on the arms of her chair, preparing to rise. Hester waved her down, going to the door. She ticked a few boxes on the paper and shoved the clipboard back at him, but at Nora’s look, closed the door slowly enough that he had time to back away.

“Get some coffee, grumpy,” she said, wheeling after a crying Shawn.

Hester felt the box in her pocket and followed her back. Hester had cut the legs and sides of the crib lower so she could still reach in while in her chair, dangling her fingers where he tried to grab. Shawn gurgled, Nora smiled, and Hester leaned in the doorway, watching. “I was thinking, that it’s looking like a really nice one out today. Want to go to the park?”

“Be a good change of pace,” she said. “I really ought to be standing more, I’m not getting any stronger in this thing.”

“Then it’s a date,” she said, smiling. “I can put a lunch together, if you wanted to—”

“Ma’am? Mum? You should both see this.”

Hester sighed through her nose at the interruption, but went out to listen. Nora followed a moment later, Shawn on her lap.

She almost didn’t hear the words, ears ringing, stomach dropping. “Hester.” She jumped when Nora took her hand. “Hester,” she said again, very calm. Sirens were starting outside. “We need to go. Right now. That Vault.”

“Yeah, I’m—” She looked for her cane, out of habit, before taking a breath and grabbing the handles to Nora’s chair. She used it for balance, walking as fast as she could manage with a slight stoop and awkward weight of the chair. The road gave way to dirt trails, and Hester had to dig her feet in, hearing a distinct _ping!_ from her ankle as she tried to force her way uphill.

“It’s ok. Come on, I can walk.” Nora raised an arm, Shawn cradled in the other. Hester drew it up over her shoulders, grabbing Nora’s waistband on her far side. She shortened her steps to match, making herself breathe slowly, heart in her throat. Something in her leg rattled with every step, making her list.

They made it through the checkpoint, onto the platform. There were still stars in her eyes from the flash as they sank into the Vault, the world gone vague and unreal. Hester followed the instructions of the staff, her and Nora holding each other up. They were handed suits, and the workers let them step aside, sit on a crate as they changed. Hester held Shawn as Nora fastened her brace over the skintight suit, passed him over to doff her legs rather than work them through her pants.

One of the workers in blue was staring. “You should see my other pair,” she said, head still spinning. “I made them out of roller skates.” He looked away. Nora shook her head, and Hester used the moment to palm the box from her pants to her suit pocket.

They were led further down, down, past blocked corridors and guards. The doctor leading them ordered them into pods, for decontamination. Still holding each other, Hester leaned down to give her a kiss on the mouth. “Out of my depth, here.”

“Like that’s ever stopped you,” Nora said, giving her a sideways hug. “I’ll be hanging off you again in a moment. Help me in?”

Hester kept on hand on the edge of the pod, the other in Nora’s as she stepped up, rested back. She gave Shawn a kiss before half-hopping away, across the hall. “Now, don’t go anywhere, you two.”

Nora smiled as she climbed up. Her heart skipped as the pod door swung down, hand resting on the box in her pocket. Nora was still watching her. She smiled when Hester met her eyes, brave and composed.

Her heart swelled. Nora, who had been by her side for years, loved her, supported her in so many ways, who had nearly sacrificed herself so long ago.

She held up the box, keeping it closed. Nora cocked her head. Her mouth went from a perfect O as she snapped it open, to joy, tears starting down her face at the sight of the ring. Hester smiled back, hugging her arms to herself. It was cold in the pod.

She managed to kiss her fingertips, press them to the glass. Nora did the same.

Hester shivered, the world falling dark.


End file.
